


Sometimes I Wish For Falling

by spockandawe



Series: When I'm Falling I'm At Peace [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Bodyguard, Eating Disorders, Explicit Sexual Content, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Self-Harm, Service, Somnophilia, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 05:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16759153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: You don’t sleep well.That isn’t a surprise, you haven’t gotten a full night of recharge since— since— Not for some time. Not for a while.You’re used to it, is the material point. It isn’t what you would prefer, and you’re sure you’re doing yourself no favors in the long term, but you don’t have many options. Every night is spent alternating between staring at the ceiling until you can’t manage to keep your own thoughts at bay and initiate manual shutdown, and sleeping until you wake up from nightmares that leave your spark burning in your chest. You still have to stop yourself from turning to be sure that— that someone is sleeping beside you. There isn’t. You know that.





	Sometimes I Wish For Falling

You don’t sleep well.

That isn’t a surprise, you haven’t gotten a full night of recharge since— since— Not for some time. Not for a while.

You’re used to it, is the material point. It isn’t what you would prefer, and you’re sure you’re doing yourself no favors in the long term, but you don’t have many options. Every night is spent alternating between staring at the ceiling until you can’t manage to keep your own thoughts at bay and initiate manual shutdown, and sleeping until you wake up from nightmares that leave your spark burning in your chest. You still have to stop yourself from turning to be sure that— that someone is sleeping beside you. There isn’t. You know that.

By this point, you should be used to the traps you introduce into your own thoughts. You aren’t. When you check your chronometer after waking for the fourth time, that reminds you how Whirl managed to warn you of Getaway’s plan on the _Lost Light_ , and you were only just in time to, to— Pushing yourself past that does you little good. There are memories of the mutiny, the fight, the aftermath. Too painful to touch, but you can’t manage to stay away. Older memories give you no relief either. Your life was… not so empty as it once was. But when one figure dominated your existence so thoroughly, perhaps that emptiness would have been easier.

You ought to be more inured to— to death by this point. And you already faced _this_ once before. You want to stop thinking of it. You initiate a manual shutdown again, which lasts until your defrag cycle tosses up memories of Whirl with one claw around your wrist, pulling your hand from your face and saying quiet words that you couldn’t quite force yourself to understand. You jerk awake again, your spark racing. Your chronometer tells you that it’s only been a cycle since you last woke, which only reminds you of Whirl again, and the messages from him you still haven’t been able to bring yourself to read, and that last conversation, hardly able to hear the words he was saying to you—

It’s an exhausting night, but typical. When you finally give up on sleep, you’ve gotten enough recharge to be functional for the day without any noticeable deterioration in performance. That’s enough.

This is still earlier than you would expect most Cybertronians to wake, but Starscream gave you no orders as to _when_ you should report back. And you can’t stand to be alone with your thoughts for any longer than this. Basic self-maintenance takes you no more than a few kliks. Your rooms are as close to Starscream’s as it’s possible to be, and it won’t even take you a single klik to walk from your quarters to his, but at least when you’re standing in the halls, you’re more likely to find something to distract yourself than if you’re standing alone in your rooms.

You look around as you go, but once you’re stationed outside Starscream’s door, you have very little to do but observe. There aren’t many mechs up and about yet, but more than you expected. You suppose that the new alliance established between Cybertron and the colonies has a great deal of work to keep it busy, never mind as to whatever efforts are being made to restore the planet. You should care about what’s being done to repair Cybertron much more than you do, but you can’t seem to manage it.

The identities of the colonial representatives are common enough knowledge, and you would be able to recognize them, but the various aides serving those powers are not so well known. You try to distract yourself by observing the few mechs who walk by your station, testing to see if you can infer from context clues which of the colonies they hail from, or whether they’re more likely to be survivors from Cybertron itself. You don’t have any more information beyond what you know from historical records of the Titans who settled the colonies, and the little gossip that reached the _Lost Light_ of the colonies beyond Caminus since contact was reestablished, so your information is scant and millions of years out of date, and you have no way to check your guesses. As a distraction goes, it is… limited.

With some desperation, you wonder if there is anything you might do to contact Starscream, or any authority you can submit yourself to with work that needs doing. If you knew Starscream’s comms frequency, you could reach out to him that way, but— He doesn’t want you here. He made that plain enough. And you’re ignoring that as completely as you can, but you can’t afford to forget that you’ve only barely secured a place under him. Any misstep on your part is a potential excuse for him to dismiss you, and if you’re sent away, you have nowhere else you can stand to go.

You remain at attention, but shift to cross your arms in front of you. Just enough that you can get your claws under the leading edge of your armor. For a moment, you hesitate. Whirl stopped you, before. Ratchet patched your face. You can still feel the fresh welds when you speak. You shouldn’t have let him do that. You should have stopped him, or explained why those injuries shouldn’t be fixed, or done _anything_ instead of just sitting there and letting him do it. Those wounds… mattered.

So, you shouldn’t. It would upset Whirl. It would have upset— You know you shouldn’t. But you dig your claws into the underside of your armor, dragging them slowly through the metal, leaving deep, painful gouges.

It isn’t enough, and you’re contemplating the possible consequences of continuing, when you get an alert on your comms.

SS: Still asleep, are we?  
SS: I’m sure that will do me a great deal of good.  
SS: And how were you planning to “serve” from your recharge slab?  
SS: Do feel free to tell me at any point why I should keep you around if all you want to do is laze about all day.  
CY: I’m standing guard outside your quarters.  
CY: If there is another task you wish me to attend to, I am at your service.

For a moment, your attention is on your comms, waiting for a reply. But after only a few nanokliks, the door in front of you slides open, and Starscream is standing there, arms folded. His field is held in tight against his frame, but he is clearly displeased. You keep your own face neutral and bow, discreetly moving your hand away from the fresh marks in your armor.

 _“Well?”_ he demands.

You don’t know what he’s asking, but you tell him, “I woke for the day and had no other duties.”

He drums his fingers on his arm, glaring at you. You stay where you are, patient, waiting for orders, a question, some indication of what he wants from you.

Abruptly, he spins on his heel and stalks off down the corridor. “Come on, then, if you’re coming. That little stunt of yours wasted time for nothing, and now we’ll be late.”

You silently fall into step behind his right shoulder. You don’t bother to defend yourself. Starscream is watching you from the corner of his optic like he’s expecting something, but you don’t know what that might be.

After a few nanokliks, he snaps, “Next time, _tell me_ if you’re going to go skulking around like that without orders.”

You might argue that you had no way to reach him until he contacted you, but again, still, your job isn’t to defend yourself. You incline your head and say, “Yes, Lord Starscream.”

 _“Mocking_ me, are you?”

Your position here is precarious. If there had been any question in your mind about whether Starscream would prefer you gone— But you guessed this would be the case, from the moment you decided to offer your service. Nobody you might have gone to would have asked for you, and they would all have had abundant reasons to distrust you. As of yet, you’ve had no opportunity to prove yourself in any substantial way, no way to secure this place for yourself.

So you only say, “How would you prefer I address you?”

No answer for a long moment. Starscream is tense. Angry. He’s hiding it well, his field stays as tightly controlled as it’s been since you met him, but it comes through in the set of his wings and the stiff way he carries himself. When he finally speaks, his voice is mocking. “I suppose it will just have to be ‘Starscream’, then, if that’s all you can manage respectfully.”

Again, you refrain from correcting him or defending yourself. In his present mood, you expect anything you say to mollify him will only have the effect of making the situation worse. You hold your peace as you follow him through the hallways. You’re keeping watch on the mechs passing you, looking for side corridors and rooms where a mech might conceal themself, noting potential defensible points— Not with any expectation of a fight, but you need to make yourself as useful and valuable as you can. And to occupy your mind and keep it from… other things.

You spare some attention to examine Starscream as you walk. He’s still angry, you’re almost certain, but hiding it well enough that you’re only guessing that because there’s been no reason for his mood to improve. What you saw of his optics before suggests chronic underfueling, and the form fatigue you can spot at his joints makes you wonder how much time he spares to leave these buildings and fly. You think he may be short on recharge as well, but you’d have to look more closely at his optics to be certain, which you doubt he’ll submit to willingly. All of that opens possible avenues to you. Ways you can make yourself useful. Ways you can meet a need. There has to be more, but this is enough to make a start.

Starscream draws up before a large door, reaching out for the access pad, but he pauses and shoots you a glare over his shoulder. “And stop _staring,”_ he hisses, before tapping out an entry code and striding into the room.

You take a position behind Starscream’s seat, at the head of the table, and stand expressionless and impassive while Starscream introduces you as his bodyguard, recent arrival to Iacon, he’s sure people would just _love_ to get to know you, but it will have to wait until there is less pressing business—

Once the meeting begins in truth, there is little for you to do. You absorb what you can, while staring off into the middle distance, to all appearances deaf to what’s happening around you. Given what you’ve seen of him so far, you doubt Starscream will appreciate your being party to these political negotiations, even when the bulk of the conversation apparently revolves around issues as mundane as the rates of energy consumption to transport goods via space bridge between Cybertron and the colonies. Still, anything you learn will potentially increase your value to Starscream, so you listen closely.

And all representatives of the colonies are here around this table, among others. Some of them are easy to identify. The Eukarian delegates stand out, as do the Devisen representatives. You recognize Cityspeaker Windblade from the _Lost Light’s_ prior return to Cybertron. You stop yourself from frowning at the way several mechs from the colonies are wearing an Autobrand or Deceptibrand. You recognize that it is… tempting, to be drawn into a set of proclaimed ideals, and to want to demonstrate your own support. To declare your own membership within a group.

You’ve tried to explain before how perpetuating that division in Cybertronian society will ultimately do more harm than good, and obscure the truth of the history of both factions— But you flinch away from that memory.

Instead, you turn your attention to Starscream again. He isn’t underfueled for lack of energon. He has access to as much as he needs, and even if his tastes run to the expensive, you’re certain he can afford it. You can’t guess what the underlying problem is, not with the information you have now. And you can’t expect him to confide in you, not without reason to do so. He has opportunity to refuel before and after recharge, at a bare minimum. You’re sure he could refuel during the day if needed. But he isn’t doing so, for some reason.

Perhaps you can assist, perhaps you’ll only anger him. Intervening in any way is a risk, you know. If you anger Starscream, he won’t hesitate to force you out. But if you’re entirely passive, that’s a risk of its own. If there’s no reason for your presence, there’s no need for your service. If you want him to make use of you, you need to be a valuable tool. Carrying small energon vials, having them at hand to offer Starscream through the day, that would be a measured risk. That’s a step you can take, you think. If he refuses you, you’ll have done little to inspire anger.

Lack of recharge, that may be more difficult. You haven’t been on Cybertron for long, but you have every indication that Starscream’s days are busy. He may simply not have enough time to rest each night. You could offer your own services, to shoulder part of his workload. Though if he’s handling sensitive information, he would be entirely right to be reluctant to pass that off to some unproven, potentially untrustworthy newcomer. It might be something to consider for the future, but trying to involve yourself in politics too quickly— You would understand if he was angry then.

And if he isn’t flying, then that would logically follow from the rest. Being underfueled would be an issue simply for its own sake, but if he doesn’t have time to sleep, it makes sense that he would have no time to fly. You still don’t think you can safely raise the subject, at least not for some time. But if you can take some of his work off his hands, surely that would allow him the freedom to meet whatever needs he has.

Thoughts for later. For the moment, you think Starscream notices your consideration and shoots you a displeased sideways look. You stay where you are, unmoving, your optics distant. You don’t need to look at Starscream to think about him. And you can listen to discussion of comparative energy expenditure for imports and exports while you think.

When the meeting ends and Starscream rises to leave, you fall in behind him. He glances at you, his expression sour.

SS: Don’t think for a moment you’ll have free access to all sorts of sensitive information.  
SS: I’m not letting the colonists get final say on who goes into what meeting.  
SS: But you’d better not get any ideas about seeing everything I see.  
CY: Of course.

He glares, like that wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear, but you keep your face blank.

As you might have expected after that reaction, you are _not_ privy to his next meeting, which he holds in private, with Cityspeaker Windblade. He leaves you at loose ends again, and you take up a station outside his door, but it remains as poor a distraction as it was this morning. Before your thoughts can spiral too far out of your control, you message Rattrap to acquire the names and contact information of mechs serving in key positions in the central government complex. He gives you that information a little too easily for your comfort, without asking why you would need it or whether you have permission to know, but you aren’t yet in a position where you can safely criticize security measures taken by powerful mechs in the government.

The information, though, allows you to reach out to the mech in charge of energon distribution for the facility. You receive more names and contact information from her, and before long, a mech comes driving down the hallway, transforms to their feet, and hands you a case of sealed energon vials. You thank them for their time and inform them that you may need more such deliveries in the future. They confirm that you’ll be able to reach out to them whenever it’s necessary, and you thank them again before they transform and drive off.

Once you’re alone in the hall, you regard the vials for a klik. To your optic, there’s nothing amiss with the energon, though there are certainly ways of tampering that would be difficult for you to detect. Still, you told nobody what you needed these for, and it would have been difficult to sabotage them on such short notice unless such measures were already planned and ready for use. In all likelihood, nothing is wrong with them. But to assume that at this point would be negligent, especially when it would be easy enough to be more certain.

Still. Your fuel tank rebels for a moment at the idea of drinking. You tell yourself that a single vial is a negligible amount to consume. Besides, you didn’t refuel this morning. Surely you can stand a little now. But your frame still protests. It’s hypocrisy, you know it is. You’ve noted Starscream’s underfueling as a _problem,_ and you’re taking steps to address it, but now when it’s your own habits in question— You’re aware of the pitfalls in your own mind, you see it when your thoughts start to drift how _he_ wouldn’t want you to go underfueled— To cut that off before it can go any further, you force yourself into motion. You take a vial near the center of the case, unseal it, and swallow the energon before you can think too deeply about what you’re doing.

Nothing suspicious leaps out at you. The taste isn’t precisely what you were used to on the _Lost Light,_ but typical of the Cybertronian energon you’ve consumed while you were on the planet, accounting for better filtering that must have been put in place as the infrastructure improved. No bubbling or fizzing on your lips or glossa, no internal alarms as it passes through your system to your fuel tank. After a few kliks, you declare yourself satisfied. You visually inspect the other vials, and when you find nothing amiss, you place the case into your subspace.

It was a small distraction, but it passed some time. And you’re able to occupy yourself further thinking how you might induce Starscream to refuel during his day, without either arousing his suspicion or making it obvious to his colleagues. You don’t have enough information to construct a definite plan, but the sheer amount of uncertainty makes it an interesting enough puzzle to largely occupy you for the rest of the meeting.

You only become aware that the meeting is over when Cityspeaker Windblade storms out, fuming. She pauses when she spots you, looking you up and down, not bothering to hide the suspicion on her face. Her field hits you almost like a blow, shockingly open compared to every native Cybertronian you’ve met who lived through the Autobot-Decepticon war. So much like— No. You remain impassive as she looks you over. Some of the other colonists were this open, you think, but none of them were this close to you, or this angry. Cityspeaker Windblade throws one last frustrated glance over her shoulder, back into the room, and then stalks off down the hall.

When Starscream doesn’t follow her, you step quietly into his office.

“—just _shut up,”_ Starscream is saying, sitting with his arms crossed against his desk and his helm resting on top of them. It must be directed at Windblade, because you haven’t said a word, though she’s long gone. You take another short step towards the desk, this one deliberately louder.

Starscream’s head shoots up. There’s alarm on his face and tension snapping through his frame for a bare instant before his body language relaxes and his expression smooths into simple irritation. He sneers and says, “Sneaking around, are you?”

You don’t intend to reply to that. Instead you draw a single vial of energon from your subspace and hold it out to him. “You should refuel, before your next appointment.”

That startles him. He doesn’t react for a moment, then shoots a glance off to the side. You don’t turn your head, but all you can see is empty room.

Just slightly too late, he says, “If you’re hoping to poison me, I expect a _little_ more effort than _that.”_

You incline your head towards him. “To the best of my knowledge, the energon has not been tampered with, and nobody is aware that it was requested for your use. If there are any steps you would like me to take to ensure it is safe, I am at your service.”

Without hesitation, he snaps, “Drink it.”

Your fuel tank turns at the thought of more energon, so soon, but you suppress the reaction. This moment is fragile, and you can’t afford to show any sign of doubt or reluctance. You unseal the vial, raise it to your mouth, and drink, not too slowly, but without rushing through the act either.

Once you’ve swallowed, you tell Starscream, “No physical indicators for poison or tampering so far. Internal scans are clean.”

He just sneers. “Taking the antidote before coming here isn’t as innovative as you think it is.”

Your face remains perfectly impassive as you retrieve the case of vials from your subspace. You hold it out to him, offering without pushing. “If there are any further measures you would like me to take, I remain at your service.”

He shoots you an irritated look, but bends forward, examining the case. His field is more unreadable than almost any other Cybertronian you’ve met, but you can see him stiffen, his wings flaring wide. “And why,” he says, his voice silky and dangerous, “are there _two_ missing vials?”

“When I accepted delivery of the energon, I took it upon myself to search for signs of tampering, including consuming one of the vials myself. Internal scans were clean, and are consistent with the energon I just drank.” You immediately take it upon yourself to package those files and send the results of those scans to Starscream’s hailing frequency.

He gets as far as, “Oh, so I should just take your _word—”_ before he cuts himself off. You stare straight ahead, ignoring the way Starscream is glowering at you, arms crossed tight, as he compares the scans. He finally says, “Well isn’t that nice. You took the time to remove one vial and mock up scan results before coming in to do this. I suppose you deserve a _little_ credit for planning ahead.”

You don’t make a move to defend yourself. But you also hesitate. You’re running out of ways to assure him that to the best of your knowledge, the energon is safe to drink.

Before any new solution occurs to you, Starscream plucks a vial from the case and breaks the seal. His voice is somewhere between bitter and amused when he says, “Whatever you have in here, I almost guarantee I have the antidote close at hand. And if I _don’t,_ you deserve this.” He makes a face but raises the vial to his mouth, tipping back his head. It takes him a moment to swallow, and you see him press the back of his hand hard against his mouth for a nanoklik before he straightens and looks you in the optic again. He adds, “Besides, once I’m dead, they’ll have you executed.”

You incline your head to him without a word and return the case to your subspace. Internally, you begin composing a proposed plan for the acquisition of more of these vials when the current supply runs out. You’ll want to personally verify your supplier as trustworthy, but placing too great an emphasis on that priority will make it clear that the energon is not for yourself, and it will be simple to infer who it _is_ meant for. Whatever the plan is that you settle on, you are increasingly sure you’ll want to offer it to Starscream for his approval before you set it into motion. _If_ he continues to accept the energon from you. This is promising, but still nowhere near a guarantee of future success.

You allow yourself to recede into the background for the remainder of the day. You’ve just put yourself forward once, and you don’t want to risk undermining your progress by drawing his anger at the wrong moment. And you still have a great deal to learn about Starscream.

You’ve already learned what you can from the historical record and current newsfeeds, and you’ve been observing him since your arrival, but there’s more still to learn. The paranoia is easy enough to see, but the way he expresses it is something to which you need to tailor yourself.

At his next meeting, you stand behind his shoulder, watching and listening. Starscream stays seated until everyone else has left the room and then slowly rises to his feet, sighing heavily and pressing a knuckle between his optics. You shift to follow him, and he whips around, optics wide, onboard weapons systems humming to life for a long moment before he visibly forces himself to shut them down.

He snaps, “Sneaking around again?” You don’t have to look down to see the tremor in his hands, but you don’t acknowledge it in any way.

Though in fairness to Starscream, the tremor never really leaves his hands, now that you’re looking for it. And it could easily be due to lack of recharge or underfueling instead of stress. Or some combination of the three.

Regardless, you make a point of making… small noises when you stand at attention behind him. Or when his attention is directed away from you. Little things. The scrape of armor on armor. A shift of weight that forces your servos to readjust. A small tap from your claws against your plating.

You think that Starscream might have his suspicions of what you’re doing, given the way he glares at first, but you put some attention into randomizing your timing, making seem more incidental than it is. He half-heartedly snaps at you once for fidgeting, but he also doesn’t startle again like he did that first time. And— more selfishly, it gives you something to focus on. A distraction. A responsibility, something to occupy yourself, so your thoughts don’t wander. Your thoughts drift to— him, and you pull yourself away, trying to ascertain how aware Starscream is of your presence, what you can do to inform him.

As the day progresses, Starscream doesn’t send you away from any other meetings. You don’t know how deliberate that is, or if it’s merely an oversight. You can’t afford to draw baseless conclusions about how secure your position here is. And given more time with Starscream, with him busy and distracted, you begin to realize that something is… wrong.

It’s little things, at first. Looking off to the side of the room in quiet moments, occasionally a small shake of the head or a twitch of a smile, though that could easily be in response to his own thoughts.

But then, as the stragglers from one meeting are trickling out of the room, Starscream braces his elbows on the table and puts his head in his hands, and mutters, “I don’t know, what do _you_ think?”

There’s nobody else within hearing. You glance around, but the room is empty except for you two. You shift uneasily, trying to collect your thoughts about… cross-colony travel permits into something helpful but unprovocative, but before you can settle on an answer, Starscream’s head shoots up and he twists to stare at you, and the expression on his face— more than anything, you’d say it looks like _guilt._

That lasts for only a fraction of a moment. He covers it well and he covers it quickly. He sneers, saying, “What am I saying, why would _you_ have anything useful to contribute.”

You don’t say anything, only bow your head in acceptance. You watch as Starscream’s wings relax, as the tension slowly bleeds out of his frame. You weigh the risk— And you take the case of energon vials from your subspace and offer it to him.

“You should refuel.”

The tension is back, but less so than moments before. He’s wary, but not _alarmed._ He eyes the case in your hands with distaste. You consider saying something else, but decide against it. You don’t know how hard you can push him yet.

After a few silent nanokliks, he says, “If this is a slow poison, it’s a good one.” He plucks a vial out from the others, unseals it, and drinks. You watch surreptitiously as you return the case to your subspace. He makes it through half of the vial and has to stop, mouth closed tight, optics offline. He runs a slow vent cycle, resets his optics, and drinks the rest.

Sourly, he says, “Feel free to stop staring at any time, of course.”

You know better than to answer that.

The last few cycles of the day are much the same as the others. Now, though, you pay close attention to when Starscream seems to react to things you can’t see. It isn’t much, but it’s… there. It’s consistent. You don’t entirely know what to make of it yet.

And you watch the other officials watching Starscream. Some of them are close enough to see the tremor in his hands, you know that. If any have basic medical knowledge, they’ll be able to see the form fatigue at his joints. If they know enough physiology, they’ll be able to tell from his optics that he’s chronically underfueled. The native Cybertronians keep their fields too close to their frames for you to read them, but occasionally you get flashes of emotion from colonists. Mild dismay from some, vague disdain from others. No real surprise. You’re certain it took a long time for Starscream to reach his current state, and most of these officials are not fools.

At the end of the day, you’re— restless. The work has helped. No matter what, you can’t forget that. It has _helped._ No matter how difficult things are, they were— worse. Before. You can’t afford to forget that.

And so you find yourself almost eager to find yourself alone with Starscream again. Not for the sake of the act. But for what the act _entails._ You want to lose yourself in service, set everything aside and focus on Starscream and nothing but Starscream. It wasn’t a condition you’d expected when you came to offer yourself to him, but it was one you’d known was possible. You’ve served this way before, you have no objections if this is one way Starscream wishes to make use of you.

But he— doesn’t. You escort him through the halls back to his corridors, but when you reach his door, he reaches for the access pad, waving you off.

“Go on, then,” he says. “Go do whatever you do for fun. _If_ you do anything for fun. You won’t be needed until tomorrow.”

Before you can formulate any kind of answer, any kind of argument— Starscream is gone, the door sliding shut behind him. You stand there for a long moment, at a loss. You feel… numb. Off-balance. You’re at a loss for what to do. A large part of you wants to rush after him, demand to be of use, to be _used,_ but you remain aware enough to realize that would inevitably mean your removal from this planet, and you cannot afford that.

You can’t stand here staring at his door. You force yourself to turn away and travel the short distance to your own quarters, but once you’re there, you still don’t— You can’t remember how you used to let the time pass. The solitude wasn’t as painful then as it is now, but you don’t— Even if you hadn’t left the others, spending an evening at Swerve’s is no longer an option. Or waiting to see where the _Lost Light_ makes port next. None of that had been an option any longer, even apart from— from—

For lack of anything else to do, you go to your recharge slab, lay down, and initiate manual shutdown. You wake from a nightmare with your spark racing not even a cycle later. You stare at the ceiling until you can’t stand to be alone with your thoughts any longer and initiate shutdown again.

In the morning, you’ve had enough recharge to function, though again, not as much as you need. You think that it won’t be noticeable to anyone unfamiliar with you. But this is a situation that you cannot ignore forever. Your one desperate hope is still that if you can only find enough to _do,_ enough duties and responsibilities to occupy your mind, you may at least be able to distract yourself enough to rest. Enough that you can stand to continue on.

As early as you think is acceptable, you leave your quarters to take up your station outside Starscream’s door. It’s only the work of moments to walk there, but being elsewhere, being in _public_ is already a relief. The corridors are nearly deserted, but it is still immeasurably better than complete solitude.

And even earlier than yesterday, you get an alert on your comms.

SS: Should I just assume that you’ve decided to haunt my door again?  
CY: I am standing guard outside your quarters, yes.

There’s no answer, but the door opens and Starscream walks out into the corridor. The look he gives you is sour, but… less so than before, you think. Perhaps. You cannot afford false hope. He doesn’t say a word, but turns to stride down the hall, and you fall into step behind him. And— instead of taking the entire case of energon from your subspace, you withdraw a single vial and offer it to him.

He regards it suspiciously for the space of a few steps, but reaches out to take it from you. He says, “Don’t delude yourself into thinking that by making a habit of this you’ll eventually trick me into letting down my guard.” But despite that, he still unseals the vial and drinks.

Some slight amount of tension leaves you. You don’t have any schedule to plan around, but if he continues to accept energon from you— You start considering what periodicity he might tolerate without becoming irritated. It will become easier to determine with more information about his habits, but it is certainly worth thinking about now. You should finalize your plan for verifying the acquisition of safe energon and submit it to him for approval as soon as possible. And you need to determine what other services you can offer to suit his needs.

When you reach Starscream’s office, you think it’s still too early for most mechs to be awake, and you idly wonder what appointment might have been scheduled for such a time. But once he enters the office, he gestures you inside, closes the door, and locks it. For a moment, you wonder— hope?— wonder— Your first encounter with him was in a room like this. He didn’t make use of you last night, but maybe now—?

“If you’re going to hover, you’re at least going to do it where I can _see_ you,” he says. He shoots a glance off to the side and then looks back at you. “I need to work, so don’t be expecting any conversation to keep you _entertained.”_

And if you’re a distraction, you’ll be removed, you expect. He gives no indication that you should follow him, and you have to admit to yourself with some regret that you must have been mistaken about why he was bringing you here. That is less than ideal. The more frequently and the more _regularly_ you can be of use to him, the more secure your place will become.

But provoking him at the wrong moment could undo the little you’ve done to ingratiate yourself. Since there are no other mechs here, you take up a station in a corner of the room. Not behind Starscream, but not in his direct line of vision either. He can look up from his desk and see you, but you won’t be a distraction. Hopefully. This would be a bad moment, you think, to offer him further energon, although you’re certain he could use the fuel.

Starscream gives you a few sour looks as he settles in at his desk, but once he turns to his console and begins to work, you are almost entirely forgotten. He’s writing a document of some kind, but you’re too far away to make any guesses at what it might be. And you haven’t won nearly enough trust to risk asking if you can be of any help. Almost certainly, you don’t have the knowledge to be of use to him here. Maybe eventually, _maybe_ after you’ve made more progress in learning of the issues facing Cybertron. But at this moment, you’re self-aware enough to realize that this is simple selfishness, desperately seizing on any potential distraction, any way to occupy your time.

You can still make a study of Starscream like this. Once he’s begun to work in earnest and forgets your presence, it’s almost like observing him in true privacy. You can’t make out the screen of his console, but he writes quickly, without hesitation. The signs of underfueling and exhaustion are easy to see like this. It has been easy enough to guess that his demeanor with you and with other mechs has been in part a performance, but seeing him like this— It’s information you haven’t earned, but it makes you think that must be _some_ way you can make yourself essential to him.

And those strange little moments you noticed yesterday— Those are still there. Occasional glances to the side. Little half smiles, or a shake of his head. They’re not in response to anything you’ve done. You’re at a loss for what could be causing them. It’s tempting to believe that it’s only in response to his own thoughts, you’ve known mechs to do that, like— like— You’ve known mechs to do that. But then there’s the question he asked yesterday, which surely wasn’t meant for you. It’s not enough information to draw any conclusions. Just enough to make you wonder.

Still, even with that, you have far too little to occupy your thoughts. You can remember a time when this would have been acceptable to you. Even pleasant. It might have been an opportunity to meditate, or to go into your archives to sort and reorganize your files. Singing would be inappropriate at a time like this, but internal playback of music ought to be entertaining without being excessively distracting. But now, you can’t even think about listening to music without your thoughts being pulled back to memories too painful to touch.

The time passes too slowly, and the press of your thoughts becomes steadily more unbearable. You don’t want to draw Starscream’s attention or give him any excuse to push you away, but— Moving slowly, by degrees, you move your arms from your sides until they rest in front of your frame, one hand loosely clasping the wrist of the other. Starscream glances up at you at one point, but he turns back to his work immediately, and his expression never even reaches true irritation.

You still bide your time, being sure that his attention is turned away from you before you make another move. And even then, you only shift your grip slightly so that your claws rest under the leading edge of your armor. You can feel the marks you left yesterday, and the way they still faintly ache when your claws catch their edges. You’re seized with a powerful urge to do that again, to pick at them, scrape your claws across them, to gouge those marks deeper and _deeper—_ But you can’t, not right now. That will be noticed.

For the moment, you have to settle with digging your claws into your plating. Just one spot, just one tiny pinprick of pain for each claw. You dig in as hard as you can, until your hand aches with how hard you’re gripping at your armor. These marks won’t be deep, not like this, but the pain keeps you occupied. Distracted. You can’t do as much as you’d like, but every time your grip shifts slightly, that pain flares, drifts, keeps a hold on your thoughts. It’s _enough._

When Starscream finally stands up from his desk, you feel like it’s been an eternity, although your chronometer tells you it’s been less than a cycle. He picks up a small stack of datapads next to the console, shuffling through them, skimming their contents, frowning down at the screens. After a klik he sighs and stretches, his wings flaring and settling. And then he looks to you.

“Hold onto these,” he says. “If you think you can manage that, of course. I would _hate_ to overtax you.”

There’s no need for you to respond to that. You subtly pull your claws from your armor as you step forward, reaching out to take the pile of datapads from him.

His optics drift offline as he stretches again. “There should be twelve of those. Two for each colony, two for me. Don’t lose any.”

There are twelve datapads. You aren’t sure what he intends for you to do with them. “Would you like me to deliver these?”

He snorts. “You’re not taking them out of my sight. You _are_ going to carry them to the meeting starting in thee kliks.”

You incline your head in acknowledgment, then fall into step behind him as he strides out through the door and down the corridor. You privately consider whether this would be a good time to ask him to send you his schedule, but you decide against it. It costs you nothing to follow him during the day, and if he wishes to expand your duties, he will need to give you the information to carry out those tasks. Patiently waiting for him to provide you with information on his own accord will allow him to convince himself that you are worth keeping, rather than pressuring him to grant you access before he is prepared to give it.

The two of you arrive at the meeting just as it’s due to start, and all of the other colonial representatives are already there, along with other miscellaneous aides, all talking amongst themselves.

Starscream pauses as he enters, waiting for the conversation to quiet and people to look up, before he sweeps in, smiling, and says, “Well, it looks like everyone’s here and ready to begin. I took the liberty of sketching out a potential plan for universalizing currency across worlds over the next millennium or so. We can review and discuss the points covered in that document instead of working out an agenda from scratch, isn’t that lovely?” He gestures your way. “Cyclonus, if you would.”

You take the cue and step forward, setting a pair of datapads on the table in front of each representative—or pair of representatives. Several mechs look irritated, several look wary, but none look overly displeased. As you hand them the documents, the representatives open them and start reading. The Eukarians are shoulder to shoulder, already whispering back and forth as they read, and the Devisens lean up against each other, holding a single datapad up together. Cityspeaker Windblade is one of the more openly annoyed mechs in the room, which is clear from her face as well as her field, but she still spares you a polite half-smile as you hand her a datapad.

When you place the last two datapads in front of Starscream, he’s seated, his elbows on the table and his hands steepled in front of him. _“Thank_ you, Cyclonus,’ he says, with what seems to you insincere good humor.

Or— the _joviality_ seems false, but even without his field to inform you, you get a distinct impression of self-satisfaction from him as you step back to take up a station behind him. He nudges one datapad towards Rattrap, seated beside him, straightens the other on the table, fiddling with its placement. He doesn’t bother to turn it on.

“Now,” he says, “let’s begin.”

To listen to him talk, you never would have guessed he wrote that document just this morning. You don’t know enough about the subject to draw informed opinions on his approach, but you can tell that he manages to take easy control of the meeting and steer them to the talking points he wants to discuss. You think that at least some of the other mechs in the room know exactly what he’s doing—Rattrap, certainly, and Windblade, judging by her expression—but nobody makes any real effort to disrupt his plans. It would be interesting to have an unbiased party with whom to discuss how well this facilitates progress, as opposed to simply silencing dissent, but you don’t suppose such an opportunity will present itself.

As it is, you attempt to learn as much about the economic issues in question as you can. And you observe the colonial representatives. You try to learn what you can about the ways they put themselves forward, the areas in which they speak confidently, the ways they express disapproval, and the ways they react to disagreement. There is a great deal for you to take in, and it occupies your full attention, though you don’t forget to occasionally shift and make little noises to remind Starscream of your presence behind him.

The next meeting is not like that. You follow Starscream back to his office, but then he orders you to stay in the hallway while he confers with Rattrap in private. It makes you… reconsider your decision not to ask for his schedule. Your initial hopes are that this meeting will be over quickly, but as the kliks drift past with nothing for you to do, your memories gradually start to claw at your processor again.

You’re seriously considering what the risks might be of taking your claws to the inside of your armor again when you’re joined by Cityspeaker Windblade. She comes down the hall towards you, just the slightest bit tentative as she closes the last of the distance, and then leans up against the wall beside you.

“I’m just trying to catch Starscream for a conversation he’s been dodging,” she says. “I hope that’s not a problem.”

You gesture unconcern. You ought to say something more, ought to take advantage of this distraction, but you can’t think of what to say.

She leans forward a little, peering up at you. She starts to speak, hesitates, then begins again. She says, “You were on the _Lost Light.”_

“I was,” you reply. You don’t know how much more than that you can manage right now.

Windblade smiles, though you can see strain and worry underneath that, now that you’re looking at her more closely. “I know— We got some of the news about, you know. Everything. After the goodbye message. And I know they’re _okay,_ I know that much, but I was wondering. Nautica and Lottie…?”

Ah. This you can do. You don’t think you can smile, never mind smile reassuringly, but you can tell her, “They are well.” And it’s a struggle to pull the memories together, pull memories of _anything_ together from after you left the planet, but you slowly add, “Nautica lost someone who was— With whom she was close. But they are among friends who care for them.”

She sighs with relief and beams up at you. “Oh, _good._ I mean, not good, not about the loss. But after that message came through—” She shudders. “I’m still learning the history. But nobody who lived through the war expected _any_ of you to come out of that alive.”

Your vocalizer is too locked up to speak. You nod in acknowledgment, but you don’t think you can manage anything more. Fortunately, Windblade seems content with that, and the two of you stand in silence for a few kliks.

Eventually she asks, “Before everything— went wrong. They were doing well? On the ship, I mean.”

“They were.” You cast your thoughts back. You didn’t speak much with either of them. You didn’t speak much with anyone. Except— But you think back, trying to remember something better to tell Windblade. “Nautica gave me a selection of Camien music files.”

It seems like paltry news to pass to a friend, but Windblade’s face and field both light up. _“Oh—_ I’d forgotten. She _did_ tell me about you. You’re the one who likes music, right?”

Cautiously you say, “I do enjoy music.”

She claps her hands together, grinning. “She said you collected! Can I trade you? If you don’t mind, of course. I’ve got lots of songs you’ve probably never heard before— I love Nautica, but her taste in music is… _erratic,_ and she didn’t care about anything with major religious themes, but some of the religious works are just _so_ lovely and some of the classical religious poems were just perfectly suited to be set to music, and—” She cuts herself off with an effort, but she’s still smiling up at you. “Any older music you wouldn’t mind sharing, I’d love to have it. I’ve had hardly any luck on Cybertron finding someone with decent archives, and I’d almost given up on looking. I’d be happy to make it up to you, if it’s any inconvenience, but I’d hate to let those files slip away without at least asking.”

You reset your optics, slowly, trying to reorient yourself and formulate a response. “It’s no inconvenience at all,” you manage.

“Still! I’d feel bad if I didn't do something for you in return. Just give me a few days, and I can pull together a nice thorough set of files for you.” She rocks back on her heels, looking up at the ceiling, still smiling, her field radiating delight. “Oh, this will be so nice. I’ve got some friends from school who will be so excited. I’d had to tell them I thought I was out of luck. And you don’t mind if I share with Moonracer too?”

One of the Velocitronian delegates, your processor fills in. You have no reason to take issue with that, you you shake your head, and Windblade beams.

That excitement lingers as you wait in the corridor, but drops sharply out of her field the moment the door opens and Rattrap steps out. The door shuts behind him, and he gives her an amused glance, shaking his head, before turning off down the hall. Windblade runs a deep ventilation, shaking out and resettling her wings, bracing herself like she’s getting ready for a fight. You decide that perhaps you ought to ping Starscream’s comms.

CY: Cityspeaker Windblade is waiting for you to leave your office.  
SS: Oh, lovely.  
SS: I don’t suppose you could fabricate some emergency before I have to face that?  
SS: Announce an alien attack on the city, stage an uprising, I’m flexible.

You’re hesitating, trying to decide if you’re meant to take any of that seriously, when the door opens and Starscream comes out to meet you, arms crossed, wings held high and wide in a threat display, already glaring at Windblade.

She ignores all that and loudly announces, “We need to talk about Metroplex’s fuel pumps.”

He turns on his heel and stalks off down the corridor, but Windblade follows him, cursing under her breath, until she draws up beside him, so close their wings almost collide. You follow behind, observing. By any normal measure, she’s behaved more aggressively towards Starscream than any other mech you’ve encountered since your arrival. But given what you know of Caminus and what you know of _her,_ you have difficulty seeing her as any true threat. Still, lack of vigilance at this point would be inexcusable, and you do not yet know how Starscream wishes you to regard her.

Starscream waves a dismissive hand at Windblade. “Don’t you have a meeting to get to?”

From behind, you can see her fist clench. She snaps, _“We_ have a meeting, which we are _both_ going to, where you’re about to make decisions about Metroplex’s refit based on advice from cityspeakers who have never worked with him directly—”

This conversation is significantly more interesting than the meetings you have observed so far. Not in the least because of how animated both the participants are, gesturing sharply back and forth, voices pitched low, but in such a way that you think they’d be yelling if they were in private. You’re almost certain that you’re learning things about a Titan’s internal workings that would more properly be kept private, at least by the standards you are accustomed to. You’re certain of it when Starscream tells you to stand guard outside the conference room, sending you two short comms as he walks through the door.

SS: Not a word of that leaves your mouth.  
SS: If that information leaks, I’ll know where it came from.  
CY: Of course.

And again, you don’t know how long this meeting is meant to last. It is increasingly tempting to ask Starscream to send you a copy of his schedule, but surely, _surely_ you can endure some slight tedium for longer than a day and a half.

You were allowed to learn that information about Metroplex. Is that perhaps a sign of some trust between you? That seems doubtful, given what you’ve observed of Starscream. Perhaps Windblade distracted him and he forgot to withhold information until it was already shared. The conversation was certainly… energetic. Or, more likely, _she_ may have assumed there was that trust between you and Starscream, and he was unwilling to admit directly that this was not the case

It doesn’t occupy you for long. There is nothing else here to distract you, and your mind keeps circling back to memories you can’t bear to touch. The corridor is nearly empty, and the few mechs who pass by are busy and barely spare you a glance. Even with music freshly on your mind, your files have no appeal. You won’t be able to focus on archival work. Without it being a conscious decision, your claws dig into the plating of your thigh.

It jolts you back into yourself, and the thoughts recede, ever so slightly. You can still feel them lurking, just waiting for your further attention, but you— can’t. You can’t. Even though you know it’s a disservice to— to him. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

There’s nobody in the halls to see you. You reach under the plating of your forearm, finding the marks you left before. You know there are abundant reasons you shouldn’t do this, but you ignore them. You dig your claws in deep, carving a set of parallel wounds into the metal. The pain is sharp and bright in your processor, and you almost shudder with the relief of it.

For the space of a single nanoklik, you think that might be sufficient, enough to carry you through the remainder of the day. That doesn’t last. You don’t even get as far as taking your claws from your armor before you move to do it again. Again. _Again._ You don’t move quickly, you don’t rush, you know you shouldn’t be doing this. You’re painfully aware that each set of marks is a failure on your part, a stinging reminder that _he_ wouldn’t have wanted— He isn’t here anymore. He’s _gone._

You lose yourself in it, gouging the existing marks deeper and deeper, feeling curls of metal drop against your internal plating. You only realize how completely you’ve forgotten yourself when you dig your claws again, let them sink into the metal— And when you push, the tip of one claw suddenly breaches your outer plating.

You freeze, staring at it. Part of you is appalled at yourself. Not only have you failed _him,_ but you’ve also jeopardized your new position under Starscream, and you don’t expect he’ll react well if he realizes you’ve injured yourself. A larger part of you wants _desperately_ to continue. The wounds on your face were patched, and that was _wrong,_ you knew it was wrong and you didn’t protest, you didn’t want— It feels _right_ , leaving marks so that even if nobody else knows, everyone will _see—_

The reverie is broken by the sound of the door opening. You force yourself to stand at attention, somehow, waiting for Starscream to make an appearance. He doesn’t. Windblade nods at you and smiles as she passes, but you see no sign of Starscream. Once mechs stop leaving the room, you step inside, looking for him.

He’s seated at the head of the table, the heel of his hand braced against his forehead. Muttering to himself, you assume, from the way you see his mouth move. You move towards his side. You can do this. You already feel more centered, more stable, with something to occupy your mind. You withdraw a vial of energon from your subspace and hold it out to him.

“You should refuel,” you say, your voice perfectly controlled and steady.

Starscream looks up to glare at you, then drops his gaze to glare at your hand instead. The moment stretches long enough that you feel a flicker of doubt. He accepted energon from you before, but you already knew that was no guarantee he would continue to do so. You waver, wondering whether you should press him further, or whether you should surrender the point and return the energon to your subspace.

Before you can come to a decision, his hand flashes out and seizes yours, the vial trapped in your grip. He bends your hand backward, flexing the wrist joint and lifting your arm to optic level— and peering inside to see the ruin you’ve made of your plating. You ought to feel shame, you think, but somehow you can’t manage to feel much of anything.

Silkily, Starscream says, “And what is _this?”_

You don’t know what answer he’s looking for, what explanation will satisfy him. You hardly know how to articulate it even to yourself. Only that you— _needed_ to do it. That it was important. Important to you. Important that there be some mark of your thoughts on yourself.

He releases your arm, and you let it fall to rest at your side, your fingers still wrapped tightly around the vial of energon.

Starscream studies you, his arms crossed, his mouth in a thin line. Eventually, he says, “This much trouble, because of one dead mech.”

You flinch before you can help yourself. Your vocalizer locks up too tightly to speak, even if you knew how to respond to him. All you can do is stand where you are, not arguing, not defending your actions, only subjecting yourself to his judgment.

After a long, silent moment, he adds. “Nothing to say? No excuses to make?”

You still can’t speak, but you bow your head to him.

“And am I supposed to believe these… _issues_ won’t affect your performance in any way? I’m supposed to believe that you might be clawing apart your own frame one moment, but you’ll be a perfectly effective bodyguard the next?”

You have no answer to that either.

You’re expecting Starscream to dismiss you at any moment, but for almost a klik, there’s nothing. You lift your head just far enough that you can see him. He’s studying you, glaring, his mouth turned downward. He makes a disgusted noise. “Get yourself to a medic. Get that _fixed.”_ His voice is bitter when he adds, “If I ever catch you doing this again, you’re out of chances.”

With an effort, you manage, “Yes.”

You aren’t certain how you even managed to earn this one additional chance. He doesn’t want you here. He seems to resent the concession. But you won’t question it, _can’t_ question it. A medic— You should protest that. On religious grounds, if nothing else. This is damage that shouldn’t be fixed, this is damage you _need_ to carry. The wounds were inflicted for a reason, you already allowed others to be repaired, having these erased as well—

You should protest, but you say, “Do you have a medic you would prefer me to use?”

He hesitates for a moment and says, “Flatline.” He pushes himself up and stands, leaning heavily on the table. “He knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

You nod. Starscream is angry. With you. You can’t afford to linger and add to that displeasure. But you are still unfamiliar with the building, and you have to ask, “His office—?”

Starscream hesitates again, for longer, his optics slowly resetting. Then you receive a map over your comms. It’s simple enough to search for Flatline’s designation, and once you find it, his office lights up on the map. It’s on the far side of the facility. Not a bad thing. The walk will clear your mind and allow your thoughts to settle, before you let him repair the injuries.

You need to leave, you should have already left, but even now— Even now, the thought of solitude, the thought of time left alone with your memories, is unbearable. So you add, “When I am finished, where should I go?”

He makes an irritated noise. You get another file over comms. A schedule this time— but only for this single day. Starscream’s voice is acid when he says, “If you’re planning to sell off locations of classified meetings, you’ll have to try a _little_ harder than that.”

This is more familiar territory. You don’t argue with him, only bow your head in acknowledgment. You start to turn to leave, but suddenly remember the vial of energon still clutched in your hand. You face Starscream again and hold out the energon to him. “You should refuel before your next appointment.”

The noise he makes this time is louder and even more irritated than the last. But he snatches the energon from your hand. You linger only long enough to see him unseal it, then turn and leave, marking a path on the map from your current position to Flatline’s office.

The walk gives you time to think. By all rights, you should refuse to have these injuries treated. They are… trivial. What is the effect? That the armor on one forearm is slightly weakened. Even if you judge in terms of the image you present, the damage is effectively invisible from a distance. You’re not certain how Starscream realized it was there, even from so close. The only external mark is the one place where your claws pierced through the plating, again, hardly something worth noting.

The injuries may be trivial, but they aren’t insignificant. They have significance. They _are_ significant. They are _important,_ and you shouldn’t allow them to be taken from you.

But you’re still here, still on your way to Flatline’s office, with every intention of asking him to repair all the damage. You have enough awareness of yourself to realize what is driving you. It’s the command. Starscream has given you so few orders since you arrived, has made it clear that he would rather you were gone, but now— He’s ordered you directly to have these injuries treated. And you will do so.

That, you think, is shameful. Placing that command ahead of your faith, ahead of— of what the injuries mean to you. But you can feel it centering you, giving you direction. _Have these treated. Don’t do this again._ One order to follow now, one to carry with you afterwards. This— is what you sought when you presented yourself to Starscream, you know that. When he made it clear that you were unwelcome, you doubted he would command and direct you the way that you desired, and even then, you never imagined that an order would run so directly counter to everything you ought to hold dear.

It feels like a betrayal when you ask Flatline to patch your injuries. What weight does your grief truly have, if this is all the inducement you need to set _his_ memory aside? You try to tell yourself that the memories you carry with you will always mean more than the marks you leave on your frame. It is difficult to believe that as Flatline opens your armor and you watch the damage vanish. Your faith and your grief seem to you shamefully weak and flimsy, especially with the knowledge that it is the mere thrill of service and obedience that has caused you to forget them.

As Flatline finishes, you can’t help running your free hand over the face, trying to find the lines of the weld marks Ratchet left when he repaired your face. You aren’t certain if you can feel them, or if you’re just so desperate to feel them that you’re imagining them there, under your fingers. The temptation to dig your claws in and mark those wounds out again is overwhelming, so intense it makes you sway.

Flatline watches you as he finishes piecing your armor back together, his expression unamused. He says, “If you do that right in front of me, I’m not fixing it.”

You nod, once, and force your hand down to rest in your lap. You aren’t going to do it. After all. You were ordered not to. That is something you can cling to, a constant reminder to hold in your thoughts. It takes concentration to remember _why_ you shouldn’t carve those marks into your frame, but even then, the effort it takes to remember that command is a distraction from everything else that you’re so desperate not to think of.

The repairs didn’t take long. When you leave, Starscream is supposed to be almost finished with a meeting with the Velocitronian delegates. However centering it is to have orders to follow, standing guard with nothing but your thoughts to occupy you remains unappealing, and you take your time walking through the hallways, arriving at the listed room just as the meeting is scheduled to end.

Less than a klik after your arrival, the door opens, and delegates exit. Knock Out ignores you completely, and you can feel a pulse of irritation in his field. Moonracer feels less frustrated, though the emotion is still there, but she still gives you a curious look and a polite smile as she passes.

Down the hallway, you hear, “Knock Out!”

The speaker is a large, stocky mech you’ve never met before, but the way Knock Out’s field lights up, bright enough for you to feel even from several steps away, makes it clear enough what they are to each other.

Knock Out continues on his way, grinning, adding a slight swagger to his steps that you’re almost sure is intended to be ridiculous. His conjunx laughs, clearly fond, and Knock Out says, “You couldn’t even wait for me to get home?”

“Vanquish and Fireshot came by, said there were some visitors coming in from Devisiun they wanted to impress, and— what’s the six-person version of a double date?”

You can’t listen any longer. You slip into the room, just so happening to tap the button to close the door as you pass.

It was a mistake, you know, because the moment the door _begins_ shutting, Starscream shoots to his feet, onboard weapons systems live, pulling a gun from his subspace, and leveling it at your face.

You freeze where you are, not letting yourself show any signs of fear or alarm. You aren't certain how to respond. It was careless on your part, given everything you have already observed. But now you aren't sure what you could say that might convince Starscream you don't intend to make an attempt on his life.

You certainly don't comment on how the tremor has gotten so severe you can see the barrel of his gun wobbling where he has it trained on you.

Starscream is the one to move. He returns the gun to subspace as he powers down his other weapons. He hasn't said a word yet, but his face is stormy.

You bow your head and say, “That was entirely my mistake. It won't happen again.”

You're expecting a question about why he should trust you to do any better in the future. Instead, he snaps, “Why, you don't think I can _handle—”_ He cuts himself off, still glaring at you. He offlines his optics and rubs a knuckle between his optics, grimacing slightly. “Whatever. We need to get a move on, or I'll be late.”

That shouldn't have been so easy. You watch Starscream as you follow him through the hallways. If the underfueling and lack of recharge are as drastic as they seem to be, there is every chance that he's feeling it in other parts of his frame. And that it gets worse as the time goes on… By the end of the day, you wouldn't be surprised if he has a splitting processor ache at the very least. It's speculation, but you know better than to ask him directly.

At least this is the last meeting of the day and then Starscream will be free to retire. Though you realize with a lurch that if today follows the same pattern as yesterday— You can't handle another evening like the last. Your spark clenches at just the idea. You have orders, you remember. You've been commanded not to injure yourself. But even with that, even _if_ that holds under such duress, you don't know how long you'll be able to endure this without breaking in other ways.

Your attention is caught by Starscream waving you forward. In an undertone, he says, “I actually do need something from you here. Stay right behind my shoulder. Read over my shoulder if you want. Loom. Menacingly. That seems like it should be right up your alley.”

The meeting is in Starscream's office, with Rattrap. From what you can tell, the only topic under discussion is staffing for the Council building. Rattrap arrives with a list of new workers just waiting for final approval, and a rough plan for addressing staffing shortfalls in the coming months.

As Starscream instructed, you step up close behind Starscream's seat and read the documents being discussed over his shoulder. It's mundane, though you know without these necessary mundane concerns, it would be impossible to accomplish greater things. Still, it’s better than simply standing guard, and it is a comfort to remember Starscream's orders. Every time you remember how your plating felt under your claws, you remind yourself. _Don't do that again._

And, you realize, although Starscream is almost certainly using you as a tool of intimidation, you are also being taken that slightest bit further into his confidence. Starscream seems to agree equably enough to most of Rattrap's suggestions, though you do as he instructed you, and don't vary your performance. When Rattrap leaves after a cycle and a half, he seems… wary, perhaps. Not intimidated, but not as confident and self-assured as he was at the beginning of the meeting.

Starscream lounges in his chair, hands folded and resting on the table. He maintains a pleasant smile until the door shuts behind Rattrap. Then _,_ he curls forward so that his head rests on his hands.

You debate the wisdom of offering him energon. Even apart from his displeasure with you, you’ve been able to see his mood gradually deteriorate as the day progressed. His mood and his state. Energon would be beneficial now, but raising the subject might push him to the point of anger, and you’ve already misstepped too many times today. If he does intend to return to his quarters, there will be energon available there. But the chronic underfueling indicates that the underlying problem is not the _availability_ of energon.

Before you come to a decision, Starscream pushes up from the table and rises to his feet. He stays there for a moment, leaning heavily on his hands, until he notices you watching him and straightens. He doesn’t say a word to you, just collects several datapads from the table, turns, and walks to the door, a sour look on his face.

You fall into step behind him as he steps out into the hall. His field is as controlled and unreadable as ever, but just from his frame, his mood is evident. He walks too quickly, his arms stiff, and his wings held low and tight. When another mech steps into view, leaving another room, Starscream’s body language shifts so abruptly you reset your optics. As you approach and pass the other mech, there’s nothing about the way he carries himself that suggests his true mood. But the moment you pass that mech and turn down a different corridor, the performance drops away.

He continues in silence as you approach his quarters. You... ought to part ways from him here, you think. Yesterday, he sent you away. He made himself clear. And you tell yourself that, perhaps, _tonight_ he will make use of your services— But you know that for a mere excuse. Your desire to continue on with him is entirely selfish. You can’t afford to anger him further. You can’t stand to spend another night alone with nothing to distract you from your thoughts. Perhaps he _will_ want you after all. And he hasn’t given you any orders—

You haven’t yet come to a conscious decision, but you find yourself following Starscream up to his door and standing at attention behind his shoulder as he enters the access code. At any moment, you’re expecting him to tell you to leave, but that moment never comes. The door opens, Starscream steps forward, and you wonder again, desperately, whether it would be permissible for you to follow him into his quarters.

Starscream decides you. He doesn’t even glance your way, but his voice bitter, he says, “Not coming in? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

It isn’t strictly an invitation, or even permission, but you’re too grateful to question it as you move forward, over the threshold.

Once you’re inside, you hesitate again, uncertain of how to proceed. Starscream continues on a little further, over to a table where he carelessly tosses the datapads. He walks to the far side of the table and leans on it with both hands, glaring at you.

He snaps, _“Well?”_

You don’t know what he wants. You don’t know what he wants to know, or what he wants to hear.

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence. Starscream’s optics drift off to your left and his mouth twitches down at the corners. Then he looks back to you and says, “So my options are to keep you sufficiently _entertained,_ or you pull yourself to pieces in front of everyone, and drag my reputation down into the mud with you.”

Or he can send you away. You aren’t going to remind him of that option. You bow your head, and as calm and controlled as you can manage, you say, “That was not my intention.”

“Not your intention to leave me with those options? Not your intention to pull yourself to pieces?” His voice is mocking. “It may surprise you to hear, but once you start clawing your plating apart in full public view, in front of the entire facility, your… _intentions_ start to matter less than your _actions.”_

“Understood. I will do better in the future.” That promise feels empty and hollow to you, and you have no way to guarantee it. From the bitter way Starscream smiles, you think he feels the same.

“So tell me something,” he says. “Go ahead! Tell me what _demands_ you’re making.”

Cautiously, you begin, “It is not my intention to demand anything—”

Starscream makes an angry, dismissive noise. _“Please._ Lie a little better than _that.”_

“I do not demand anything, I only hope—” You reset your optics, run a slow vent cycle. “I would be grateful to be given enough duties to occupy my time and— my attention.” You pause, wondering if you should stop there, but press on, “I am perfectly willing to serve in any capacity you desire.”

Starscream’s optics narrow. “You expect me to believe you? You _genuinely_ expect me to believe that. You are _actually_ saying that if I let you frag me, you might be willing not to shred your plating in the middle of the council building. To be clear, this is something you expect me to believe?”

You hesitate, looking up at him. “It is a duty I have… served before. I did not find it beneath me.” You don’t want to think about that. You don’t want to think about who you served, or your reasons for offering that service. Even with time and distance to dull the edges of that history, you shy away from those memories. “I do not find it beneath me now.”

“And that’s going to keep you _busy.”_

“I am grateful for any duty you can offer me,” you say, truthfully. “Any way I may assist you—”

He scoffs. “Even the mechs doing janitor work here have security clearances. I’m pushing things by taking you into as many meetings as I already have.”

You don’t know what else you can say. “Any duty you can offer me,” you repeat.

Starscream crosses his arms, watching you. His expression certainly isn’t pleased, but it’s not as bitterly angry as it was before either. Standing like this, unmoving, you’re free to study him, and the lack of recharge and refueling are so apparent that you itch to correct those problems, but you know this isn’t the time. And eventually, Starscream says, “Fine.”

He hasn’t said enough for you to know what that agreement entails, but you know what will be expected of you. You incline your head and say, “Thank you. What will you require of me?”

Starscream laughs, once, short and sharp, and now you can hear the faint note of bitterness still in his voice. “Didn’t you just get done saying that if I let you frag me, you’ll stop causing me problems? Go on then. Let’s put that to the test.”

You don’t like the way he phrases that. The rush of relief you feel is overwhelming, shamefully so, but his words still leave you uneasy. Cautiously, you say, “I wouldn’t want to pressure—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” He turns and stalks away, towards his berth chamber. “And I don’t care. Are you coming or not?”

You follow him, pushing aside your doubts, though you can’t help lingering over thoughts of the growing number of ways you are apparently willing to compromise yourself to get what you desire.

Starscream goes straight to his berth, but you detour to the energon tap you used for him before and draw him a full cube. He perches on the edge of his berth, watching you as you cross the room. He’s annoyed, you think, but not dangerously so.

You hold out the cube and say, “You should refuel.”

He eyes the cube with clear distaste. “Don’t you know any _other_ words than that? And I should I just assume you’re telling me you won’t get a move on and get this over with until I drink that?”

If he argued, you would cave. Your resolve is shamefully weak, you know enough of yourself to realize that. But you hold out the cube without saying anything, and after a moment, Starscream snatches it from your hand and takes a long drink. He sets the cube aside on a table beside the berth, still half-full, and you— _ought_ to argue that he needs the fuel before burning energy this way, but you already know you won’t press the point.

Instead of serving in truth, instead of prioritizing his needs and well-being above your own, you selfishly say, “How would you like me?”

He frowns. “Demanding, aren’t you. I don’t care, _you_ choose.”

You incline your head in agreement. You unstrap your sword and set it against a wall, recalling the order he gave during your last encounter. From the corner of the optic, you can see him stiffen, though when you turn back to look at him directly, he appears to be perfectly at ease. That lasts until you take two steps to close the distance between the two of you. His field is still unreadable, his expression is still entirely unconcerned, but the tension in his frame is unmistakable. You pretend not to have noticed anything, and continue pretending as you go to one knee in front of him and set one hand on each of his legs.

You ask, “Will my mouth be acceptable?”

“Didn’t I just finish saying that I don’t care?”

He hides the strain in his voice well. You move slowly and deliberately as you part his legs and lean forward into the space. You let one hand slide up Starscream’s inner thigh towards his array, and hear the faint sound of his fans speeding up. His hips move, barely, but shifting towards the edge of the berth, towards you.

You let your hand rest against the upper edge of his thigh and brush your thumb across his panel. You ask, “Open?”

There’s a minute hesitation, but then his panel slides open and you can see the faint glow of his biolights. His spike casing is still closed, so you let your hand drift over it, fingers just barely brushing against the metal. You bring your other hand up to his valve. His plating is barely warm to the touch, though his legs twitch when you let your fingers rest his array. If he was serious about wanting you to get this over with, you shouldn’t take your time. But that wars with the desire to prove that you _can_ serve well, the desire to acquit yourself well enough to convince himself that you’re a tool worth using, at least in this small way.

So you lower your mouth first to the joint at the top of one leg. You mouth at the gap in his plating, just the barest hint of glossa. This won’t be sufficient for him, only enough to tease at the sensitive wires of the joint without providing any real satisfaction. You’re tense, waiting for a cutting remark or a rebuke— But Starscream doesn’t say anything. He sighs, and it isn’t clear whether it’s a sigh that indicates pleasure or exasperation, but his legs part the slightest bit further, allowing you to press in closer.

It is a very short distance from Starscream’s hip joint to his valve, but you still take your time traversing it, moving as slowly as you can manage. You keep one hand against his spike casing and one against his valve, but they only rest there, unmoving. His spike still isn’t pressurized, but his plating warms fractionally against your hands and mouth.

You gradually approach his valve, until you’re close enough that you have to move your hand to make way for your lips. You approach his anterior node, pressing your mouth to his array— and drift past it without even a single touch. Starscream squirms under your hands, his hips shifting, pressing forward against you. From the corner of your optic, you see his hand twitch towards you before settling back at his side.

If he’s feeling the temptation to involve himself— You set aside the slow teasing for another time, and press your mouth directly to Starscream’s valve. He gasps, loud and sharp, and _does_ grab your horn this time. You kiss his valve deeply, pressing your glossa into him, as he leans back on his free arm, dragging you down against his array. Now, his spike casing opens, and you let his spike pressurize against your fingers, wrapping your hand around it, stroking it.

You allow Starscream to steer you, let him determine where he wants your mouth. His plating is burning hot against you now, his valve dripping lubricant and charge sparking against your glossa. He drags you up from his valve to his node, and you are entirely willing to satisfy his wishes. You apply your glossa in a steady, relentless rhythm, still stroking his spike with one hand as you lick his node.

His fans are roaring. He’s still braced on one elbow, but his head has fallen back now, and you can feel a tremor in his legs where you’re pressed against them. Just as you’re considering whether to attend to his valve with your free hand, Starscream makes a soft, choked noise and abruptly overloads. You coax him through it, drawing it out and out, until finally he starts trying to twist away from your mouth and you draw away.

You kneel there, not making a move as Starscream pulls himself back together. Privately— You’re a little disappointed. You want to prove yourself to him. Show yourself to be a resource worth using. You could have drawn that out much longer, if you’d been careful. Still, he hasn’t sent you away yet. The last time you had a chance, he was even more dramatically underfueled than he was now. If he’ll allow you to stay, if he’ll allow you to _continue,_ you should be able to coax at least one more overload from him.

When he sits up again and manages to focus his optics on you, you carefully rise to your feet. You’re expecting some kind of remark from him, whether it’s a dismissal or not, but he’s silent, wordlessly watching you. Even from _this_ close, you realize, you can’t feel even a hint of his field. It would be hypocritical of you to criticize the decision to keep your field tightly contained, but it is… eerie, to be so close to a mech and be able to feel nothing of them.

Starscream still hasn’t spoken. But at the edge of your vision, you notice the half-empty cube of energon he left on the table. Part of you whispers that you need to be cautious and avoid pushing Starscream on _any_ point if you can avoid it. A louder part insists that you’ve finally been given a chance to serve, and you need to take advantage of every opportunity to ensure that this situation repeats itself in the future.

So you reach out to pick up the cube—ignore the way Starscream stiffens at the sudden movement and forces himself to relax—and turn back to him. You hold it out, just like before, and say, “You should refuel before we continue.”

He freezes in the middle of reaching out to take the cube. _“Continue?”_

For a moment, you are utterly certain you’ve destroyed any chance of being allowed to do any more.

But then Starscream laughs in a way that sounds almost genuine, and plucks the cube from your hands. _“Confident,_ aren’t you.”

That— isn’t a no. It sounds almost promising. You’re at a loss for how to respond, and settle for bowing your head.

Starscream waves one hand vaguely towards the energon tap. “Then go refuel _yourself._ Having you shove energon down my throat is bad enough without you looming and staring while I drink.”

Ah. That’s— Objectively, you know that you _should_ refuel. You know that your tanks are much emptier than they ought to be. You know that you have no excuse. But just the thought of taking a single swallow is enough to make you feel slightly ill. But you’ve been given an _order—_

You hesitate for just a moment too long. Starscream pauses with the energon cube at his mouth and gives you a much sharper look. “Is there a… problem?” His voice is mild, but you’ve seen how quickly his moods can shift.

“No,” you say, evenly enough, but you still haven’t managed to make yourself walk to the energon tap.

Starscream glances off to your side, then back to you. He takes a sip from his energon cube and smiles thinly. “You wouldn’t… _lie_ to me, would you, Cyclonus?”

You can feel the jaws of the trap closing in, but, “I would not.”

He takes another slow sip. “Then do tell me, would drinking a cube of energon overfill your fuel tank right now?”

“No.”

“Mm.” Another slow sip. “Enlighten me. How many full cubes _could_ you drink right now?”

You curse quietly to yourself, but keep the emotion off your face. “Four.”

Starscream smiles again. “Four! Now, isn’t that remarkable.” He pauses for another drink of energon, clearly for effect, clearly not caring that it’s obvious that he’s pausing for effect. “And just think, you’ve taken such an interest in _my_ eating habits. It would be terribly rude of me not to return the favor, wouldn’t you say”

You don’t answer. You can guess what’s coming.

Flatly, he says, “Every time you feel compelled to meddle with my refueling schedule, you can go ahead and do the same for yourself. That’s an order. Understood?”

You bow your head. “Yes.”

He lounges on his berth with a distinctly self-satisfied expression on his face. “Well. Isn’t that lovely. I am _so_ glad we could come to an understanding.” His voice gets sharper. “Now go drink a cube of energon.”

The command helps ground you. It sets you into motion, and you cross the room and fill a cube from the energon tap. And then all you have to do is maintain control of your fuel tank while you drain the cube. Logically, you know this shouldn’t be difficult. Your tank is nowhere near full. You need to refuel, or you won’t be able to carry out your duties. This is what— what _he_ would have wanted. But it’s the order and Starscream’s optics on you that give you the fortitude to push through the nausea.

Finally, you’re able to disperse the empty cube. And when you manage to focus your optics on Starscream again, his cube is nearly empty. Regardless of how you feel right now, you _did_ succeed in persuading him to refuel. You suppose his goal is to encourage you not to raise the issue in the future, but— He needs to refuel more often. Perhaps— you might be able to force yourself to drink more if it’s in pursuit of persuading him to do the same. You’ll have to see.

For the moment, he finishes the last of his energon and disperses the cube. And you realize just how badly you don’t want to be told to leave and return to your empty quarters.

So before he can say a word, you step back to the side of his berth and say, “How do you want me?”

He snorts. “One of these days, I’ll tell you to answer that question _yourself.”_

You try not to react outwardly to the implication that this is— a situation that will repeat itself in the future. Presumably multiple times. But you think Starscream hears his own words and realizes what he just said. He freezes for an instant and his optics dart off to the side, but again he pulls himself back under control, and to all appearances, that previous reaction never happened.

“Fine, then,” he says. “Something different. Let’s see how good you are with your hands.”

Starscream reclines back on the berth as you close the last of the distance between you and reach out to him. He takes your hand and guides it down between his legs, and this time, his panel slides open before you even touch it, his spike pressurizing, and his plating still warm to the touch.

You cup your hand over his array as Starscream settles on the berth, ever so slightly rocking your palm against him. He braces his feet against the surface of the berth, pushing his hips up into your hand. You take the opportunity to look him over, trying to think through what little you’ve learned of his preferences, wondering what direction to take this encounter. You could probably eventually bring him to overload this way, given time and patience, but you don’t know how much patience he’s willing to spare for you— And you find yourself reluctant to rely on _just_ this, especially if he’s really considering allowing you to continue serving this way. You want to— impress him. Satisfy him. Persuade him that you are worth using.

And you realize, abruptly, that Starscream is watching you examine him, and he doesn’t look entirely pleased.

Once you’ve noticed him, he sighs pointedly, rolls his optics, and reaches up to hook his fingers on your collar faring. He says, “If you’re just planning to _stare,_ you can find something better to do with your mouth.” And then he drags your head down to his.

For one wild moment, you think you must be mistaken about what he’s telling you, but his mouth is already parting to meet yours, and then you’re kissing Starscream. He wraps an arm around your neck, just in case you had the wrong idea, you suppose. You’re braced on one elbow, but he holds you against him, his glossa is in your mouth, you can feel the hot air from his vents on your plating, and he arches up underneath you, his hips pressing up into your touch.

You kiss him, deeply, and wrap your hand around his spike. He shudders and makes a pleased noise into your mouth. You can’t see him well like this, especially held so tightly to his frame, with him moving against you, but it’s even easier to find a rhythm than it was before. You touch his spike, moving in time with him, then let your hand slide down to rub over his node, brush across his valve. You don’t slide your fingers into him, not yet, but you can feel how wet he still is from his last overload.

A part of you is waiting (hoping?) for him to tell you exactly what to do, but he shows no inclination to break away from the kiss. And there’s an undeniable satisfaction in inspiring a reaction like this. To bring him release is satisfying in its own right, but you’ve been searching for a way to prove to Starscream that you’re worth keeping, and even if this is only tacit acknowledgment that you have _something_ you can provide to him, it is still an immeasurable relief.

The build to this overload is slower. Without Starscream directing you to his node, you’re free to spread your attention across his array, ramping his charge higher and higher without ever quite reaching the point of release. Time distorts as you touch him, letting you hand wander over his array, rubbing his node until you can feel him tensing and arching beneath you, then letting your hand drift to his hip to tease his sensory wires, returning to his spike, cupping your palm over his valve.

Eventually, though, you can tell that he’s growing tired, and you know this can’t last forever. You take his spike in hand, and this time, you don’t let the charge disperse away from the point of overload. Now, you keep your hand moving against him in a steady rhythm, one he matches, his feet braced on the berth and his hips pushing up into your hand. You can feel the tension mounting in his frame, and you can certainly feel the moment he loses track of the kiss, just gasping wordlessly against your mouth, his optics offline and his fans pouring off heat against your plating.

It reaches a breaking point and Starscream overloads. He makes a soft, shocked noise as it hits, clutching at your collar faring so hard you wonder if it will dent. You can feel his hands shaking, his legs shaking, all the tension in every line of his body as the charge finally releases. You keep your hand on his spike, stroking him steadily through the overload. His optics remain offline as he shakes. It is still as unsettling as ever that you can’t sense his field at all, but there are more than enough clues in his frame to follow the things he’s feeling right now.

As the overload comes to an end, he untangles his fingers from your plating and moves one hand down to clutch at your arm. You release his spike, assuming that he wants you to stop. He doesn’t. He only shoves your hand down lower, so that your fingers are pressed against the entrance to his valve. You hesitate, uncertain that you’re understanding him correctly.

Starscream’s voice is half static and slurred, but he says, “Go on, what are you waiting for?”

You move your fingers to rest more firmly against him, and he shivers, grinning, but his optics are still offline and his hands are clumsy compared to how they were even minutes before, and you have to ask— “Would you like to recharge?”

He snorts. “Recharge can wait.” His words are so blurred it’s difficult to make them out, and he still hasn’t brought his optics back online. “I thought you _wanted_ me to give you orders.”

Put like that, he has a point. But at this point, you’re not certain how easy it will be to coax another overload out of him, or how quickly it will be possible to bring him to that point.

You try once more. “I am happy to serve. I only— believe you may fall asleep before I can do as you ask.”

It takes him a little too long to answer, and for a moment, you think he’s already in recharge. But then he says, “Still didn’t tell you to _stop.”_

That is certainly true. And he’s expressed a direct wish. Ordered _you_ to fulfill it. You’re happy to serve. You kiss him again, and he responds sluggishly, mouthing at you without much purpose or direction, but he does respond. He rouses briefly, when you press two fingers into his valve, but even then, he’s half-asleep and drifting again within moments.

You follow every sign you can read from his body, the charge you can feel from his valve in the joints of your hand, and find the little things that tell you are ramping Starscream’s charge up higher and higher, even with Starscream being more asleep than awake.

It’s still a slow, slow climb. After two overloads in quick succession and with Starscream barely qualifying as an active participant, you aren’t surprised. But that does allow you to direct your full focus towards the task in hand. One of Starscream’s arms is still wrapped firmly around your neck, but you can feel more than enough to judge his reactions.

Even when Starscream finally gives up on trying to remember how to kiss back, and when you’re almost entirely certain he is fully asleep, you manage to build his charge towards that last overload. You withdraw your hand from his valve just far enough to add a third finger, and Starscream rouses enough to make a wordless noise of protest, though by the time you’re back inside him again, you think he’s already back asleep.

You’re the only one there to watch that last overload. It’s quiet compared to the others. Starscream shifts fitfully without waking, and shivers silently under your hands. You touch him gently as this overload passes, slow, quiet, rolling shudders that echo through his entire frame, until those echoes finally start to ease and fade. When he’s still again, you carefully withdraw your hand from his valve, moving as slowly as you can. He doesn’t react. Even when you manually close his array panel, he doesn’t seem to be aware anything is happening.

After that, the only thing left is to untangle yourself from his grip. Taking his arm from around your neck without waking him is not an easy task. You move his arm gradually, by degrees, unwinding it from your neck, straightening it, and settling it at his side.

Then, finally, you can stand up to take a better look at him. He seems to be in a comfortable enough position, no reason to expect he’ll be sore when he wakes. He will need to clean himself, but you are aware that taking any initiative in that direction while he’s asleep and not expecting it is effectively guaranteed to end badly.

You do feel some uncertainty about what you should do now, whether you should take this as an implicit dismissal, or whether you should stand guard for the night, after having put him in this state. You could make an argument for either possibility. And you can see the benefits of each of those choices too. Standing guard over a sleeping mech could be… risky, potentially, with nothing outside your head to distract you, not even sleep. And if you left, would he take that as an insult, or an attempt to place him in danger?

What decides you is the way Starscream reacted when you shut yourself in a room with him. That was only today. He’s made it perfectly clear that he would not be at all surprised if you tried to assassinate him. You think that staying, _now_ , while he’s vulnerable and has not given you permission to linger, is too risky to justify.

You do take the liberty of drawing another cube of energon and placing it on the table beside his berth. And— You belatedly remember his orders. Your fuel tank protests, strongly, but you draw a second cube of energon and force yourself to drink it down. Once you’ve dispersed the cube, you look about for anything else that needs doing before you leave. Your head already feels clearer than it has in days, and you— want to continue like this. You want to continue to be of use, and to be used. Any initiative you can take sounds appealing beyond measure right now.

Unfortunately, there isn’t anything that you can see. The apartment is bare, even by Cybertronian standards. It’s no longer the shock it once was, seeing how living habits on the planet compare to what you were so used to, but it’s still a stab of bitter regret being reminded of it. And, more materially, Starscream has so little by way of possessions in here that you don’t see any way to be of use. There are the datapads he brought back from the latest meeting, but given what he said about security clearances, you don’t think he’ll appreciate any suggestion that you may have tampered with them, so it would be best not to stack them neatly, or bring to them to sit beside his berth.

And that’s all. You should be more disappointed you have nothing here to do, but you feel almost... relaxed. You aren’t looking forward to trying to recharge, but you don’t dread it in the same way you have for weeks. This isn’t a solution, you know that. Whatever _this_ is, it’s only a temporary patch over a deeper problem. But it’s the best you have. So you dim the lights in Starscream’s quarters and leave, locking the door behind you, and feel nothing more than faint regret that you couldn’t do more.

You look at his locked door for a long moment, collecting your thoughts. And then you turn away and begin the short walk to your own quarters. You think that tonight, you might be able to sleep.


End file.
